


reconnaissance

by ktula



Series: Come As You Are [3]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (but not a metaphorical one), (no literally), (well okay it's a staff), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Burlesque, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Burlesque, Gambling, M/M, Multi, Other, Swordswallowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 09:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13761333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: “Holy fuck, he’s way bigger than he looks in his archive footage.”Phasma only briefly looks up from her phone. “No, he’s not. And he’s not that big.”“To you, maybe.” Mitaka takes another drink of his beer, looks across the bar at the behemoth currently leaning against it.  He’s buzzed, and he can hear it in the way the words fall off his tongue, loose and casual. “Look at the stage presence on that fucker. Everyone’s staring at him.”----Or, another perspective on the epilogue ofFoxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo, wherein Kylo Ren is a burlesque dancer with the Resistance, Hux is the aerialist headlining the Knights of Ren, Phasma is very deliberate with her texting, and Mitaka came here for a vacation, goddamn it.Contains mild spoilers for Foxtrot, but since the spoilers are presented without context, it's not necessary to have read one prior to the other.





	reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> So, it was my birthday the other week. And as a birthday present to me, I thought it would be nice to revisit the Foxtrot!AU. So here you have it--a one-shot that provides an alternative perspective on the show at Maz's place.
> 
> Content warning for a pejorative use of the word 'slut', courtesy of our resident asshole ginger, who didn't even lower himself to show up in person to this fic, and also some very slight daddy kink right at the end.

“Holy fuck, he’s _way_ bigger than he looks in his archive footage.”

Phasma only briefly looks up from her phone. “No, he’s not. And he’s not that big.”

“To you, maybe.” Mitaka takes another drink of his beer, looks across the bar at the behemoth currently leaning against it.  He’s buzzed, and he can hear it in the way the words fall off his tongue, loose and casual. “Look at the stage presence on that fucker. Everyone’s staring at him.”

“Everyone into _men_ is staring at him,” Phasma corrects.

Mitaka looks over at her. She’s still staring at her phone, idly flicking through screens, and absolutely ignoring him. “You’re occasionally into men,” he says, a bit petulantly.

She raises her eyebrow at him without looking up. “I’m only into other people when I tire of giving myself orgasms.” She gestures vaguely toward the bar, red lacquered nails glinting briefly in the light. “I know what he looks like when he’s been fucked into a concrete floor, and I assure you, it’s not as attractive as you think.”

“My opinion may differ,” Mitaka mutters into his drink. He swigs the rest of it down, jerkily pushes his chair back. The room is spinning, a bit—but it’s just a bit, so it’s fine. The show hasn’t started yet; he has enough time to sober up if he feels like it. He balances himself with a hand on the back of his chair, closes his eyes for a moment to get his bearings.

When he opens his eyes, Phasma is watching him.

“I thought you were the responsible one tonight, Doph.”

“I am,” Mitaka says, pushing his empty drink to the edge of the table. “I left all our credit cards back at Citadel and paid for the rooms in advance.” He gestures vaguely in the last direction he saw his boyfriend heading. “Thanisson only has cash—he’ll burn himself out soon enough.”

“Unless he’s on a winning streak,” Phasma says. She drains her gin and tonic, and pushes her empty glass next to Mitaka’s. “You could get me another, while you’re up there.”

“I might,” Mitaka says. He pulls his cash out of his pocket and checks to make sure he still has his phone. Realizes, after a moment, that Phasma is looking rather pointedly at the wad of cash in his hand. He folds. “I will. Get you another, that is.”

“Thank you,” she says, extending her long legs out into the aisle and resuming tapping on her phone.

Mitaka debates not saying anything, but the beer’s loosened his tongue. “You’re going to give Hux a heart attack.”

She lifts one shoulder minutely, raises her phone and snaps a picture of Kylo Ren at the bar. “That’s the hope,” she says.

“This is a vacation,” Mitaka says, more to himself than to anyone. He scoops up the empties, and heads over to the bar. He’s off-duty. So is she. And he doesn’t need to interfere with whatever she’s doing just to protect Hux’s feelings.

It’s not like Hux has any.

 

Kylo Ren is still there when Mitaka approaches, sipping at a glass of something clear with a lime perched on the side of it. Mitaka considers saying something, but he’s too drunk to come up with anything even remotely intelligent, so he doesn’t bother opening his mouth. (It’s not like _hey, so you’re a legend back at the Citadel, huh? o_ r _we heard Hux fucked you into the floor, how was that for you?_ are good openers for a conversation.) Anyway, Kylo Ren is much bigger than any of them had suspected—easily twice Mitaka’s weight, and towering over him even when he’s leaning up against the bar, so it’s probably in Mitaka’s best interests not to piss the guy off.

Up close, though—Kylo Ren is fucking gorgeous un-masked, even more so than the archive footage at the Knights had indicated. His eyeliner is sharp, winging out past his fake lashes, and he’s wearing deep purple eyeshadow with a gold cut crease and dark lipstick. His hair is effortlessly tousled and falling in waves around his face, longer now than it had been even in the earliest archive footage from his initial recruitment. He’s wearing tight jeans, worn at the crotch and with holes in the knees, and a black tank top cut low in front, exposing a broad muscular chest that’s glittering faintly in the light. There’s an unzipped hoodie slouching down his arms, not doing anything other than exposing his biceps.

Mitaka squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and then opens them again, glad Kylo seems more engrossed in squeezing his lime into his drink than noticing that Mitaka’s been staring.

“What are you after?” asks the bartender. She’s small, ridiculously so, with thick glasses that dominate her features.

“Uh, another pint of that spiced craft beer, and then a gin and tonic for my friend.”

She stares at him for a moment through those ridiculously thick glasses. Mitaka holds firm—if he can hold firm while Armitage Hux screams at him, he’s not going to crumple under an old lady, even if he is halfway to plastered and she’s being very intense about it.

“I’ll find you a bartender,” she says finally, and she turns, gestures to someone at the other end of the bar.

Mitaka breathes a little easier once she’s turned away.

“Are you here for the show?”

Mitaka does jolt this time. The owner of the voice is remarkably close, the voice itself is remarkably deep, and—oh, fucking hell, of course it’s Kylo fucking Ren.

“Yes,” Mitaka says evenly, all the while trying to school his face so that he doesn’t look as though he nearly jumped out of his boots. “Yes, I am.”

“Ah,” Kylo says. He brings his fingers—nails cut short, filed neatly, a dark purple glitter gel that matches his eyeshadow—up to his straw, twirls it around in the glass for a moment. “It’s a good show,” he says. “You’ll enjoy it. First time at something like this?”

The nervous chuckle escapes before Mitaka can clamp down on it, because what the fuck is he going to say? _Actually, I work with Armitage Hux—I believe you’ve met?_ “No,” he says instead. “I’ve seen burlesque before.”

In the light, Kylo’s lips aren’t the black Mitaka thought they were. They’re actually an ombre—near-black on the edges, fading to purple closer to the middle. The purple becomes obvious when Kylo raises the glass, purses his lips around the straw, and takes a drink. He lets go of the straw, and his lips move for a moment.

“What?” Mitaka says gracelessly, and then immediately frowns. Fucking hell, he’s not drunk enough to be this uncoordinated.

“I was asking where you were sitting,” Kylo says, amused.

“Over there,” Mitaka says, vaguely gesturing into the corner. It’s reasonably dark back there, and a good bit away from the stage.

“Pity,” Kylo says. He takes another drink, and then sets his empty glass back on the counter. “Best view in the house is gonna be those couple tables right front and center, so if I were you, I’d go cozy up to the blonde in the red dress.”

“I’ll consider it,” Mitaka says. His voice comes out steady, and he’s very proud of himself for that.

“I’ll cover this round, Maz,” Kylo says. “Put it on my birthday tab?”

“Your funeral,” the old lady responds. She sets a new round of drinks in front of Mitaka.

Kylo grins, and then snags the beer before Mitaka can pick it up. Takes a sip, and then sets the glass down at the bar. “Good choice,” he says, before turning and sauntering away. “Enjoy the show.”

His lipstick has left behind a dark purple print on the rim of Mitaka’s glass.

Mitaka sighs, picks up both drinks, and heads back to his table—which is front, center, and impossible to miss because Phasma is constitutionally incapable of going out somewhere without wearing something memorable.

Tonight, it’s a red dress.

 

“This is a public venue,” Phasma is saying when Mitaka walks up. She’s still looking at her phone, even though the dude standing right next to her is staring at her, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll take whatever pictures I like.”

“I’m saying,” the guy says patiently. “That I’d like you, as a personal favour, to stop taking pictures of Ben.”

The guy looks remarkably familiar for some reason—curly hair, about Mitaka’s height, looks like he’s at least passingly acquainted with the gym—but Mitaka can’t quite place him. He’s definitely seen photos of him before, though, and recently. Within the last few months. The guy looks—

“Who the hell is Ben?” Phasma asks.

“Hey,” Mitaka says. “Brought your drink, Phas.” He sets the glasses down on the table.

The guy turns, and the reason he looks familiar suddenly clicks in Mitaka’s mind. “The lockscreen,” he says, feeling proud for finally figuring it out. “That’s where.”

The guy’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Mitaka says. “It’s just—I’ve seen a picture of you before, that’s all. You’re with the Resistance, aren’t you?”

The guy sighs, extends his hand. “Yeah. Poe Dameron.”

Mitaka shakes out of instinct rather than any actual desire to do it.

“He’s the boss of who takes pictures in public spaces,” Phasma says dryly. “You might want to hand over your phone for inspection.”

Dameron rolls his eyes. “Look, I really don’t need any more shit from you guys. I don’t know what the fuck Snoke is—”

“This has nothing to do with Snoke,” Mitaka and Phasma say in unison.

Dameron frowns. “You are still with the Knights, though? I mean, I don’t recognize you,” he says, gesturing at Mitaka. “But I _do_ recognize you.” He attempts to level another glare at Phasma, but she remains nonplussed.

“We’re not here officially,” Mitaka says, summoning all the diplomacy he can muster. He’s hesitant to sit down, but then, he doesn’t really want Phasma standing up either, so with any luck, she’ll just stay on her phone, and Mitaka can just smooth this over before it gets ugly. “Snoke’s out of town—”

“I know,” Dameron says cryptically.

“—and there’s—there are—just a couple of us here tonight. Blowing off steam.” He cringes the minute the phrase exits his mouth, because fuck, does it ever sound stupid.

“Where’s the rest of you?” Dameron says suspiciously. “Did you bring that ginger—”

“Hell no,” Phasma says.

“It’s just the two of us,” Mitaka says, trying to sound calm. “And my boyfriend, gambling in the back room. Just the three of us.” He sighs, gives up, and sits down. “Hux doesn’t leave Citadel. He’s probably trying to kill himself rehearsing right now.”

“Maybe you’ll be lucky and he’ll succeed,” Dameron says.

“We could always hope,” Phasma says, still not looking up from her phone.

Dameron frowns a little at that. “It’s not like the show was—”

Mitaka surprises himself by interrupting, albeit more plaintively than what he’d intended. “Could we not? Talk about the show?”

“Oh, come now,” Phasma says, and her smile is all teeth. “It was such a lovely followup to Starkiller.”

“Could we not,” Mitaka repeats again. “Please, Phasma. We’re trying to have a day off.”

“And we’re all so _very_ good at it,” Phasma says.

“Look,” Dameron says. “I just need to clarify this, alright? I don’t actually care about whatever internal drama is going on.” He runs his hand back through his hair. “You’re certain that you’re not trying to recruit him back into the Knights?”

Phasma snorts, actually sets her phone down and looks Dameron in the eye. “You think we want Kylo fucking Ren back? Can you imagine the shitshow that would be?”

“I need to sit down,” Mitaka murmurs. Even just the thought of it is making him woozy.

“He’s fucking good,” Dameron says defensively.

“You don’t need to tell us,” Mitaka says, pulling out his chair and sitting down heavily. “We’ve seen literally all of his archive footage—front, back, and sideways. Phasma uses it for training for our dancers, and we showed up tonight, at least in part, because we’d heard the Resistance was performing, and that implied that he would be performing too.” He tips his head toward the backroom. “And because my boyfriend likes to gamble.”

“Well, Maz’s is good for that,” Dameron allows. He hesitates a moment, and then seems to come to a decision. “Look,” he says. “I’m sorry about getting all aggro with you. I’ll make sure your next couple rounds are covered, alright? I just—I just wanted to make sure that Snoke wasn’t pulling some kind of bullshit again.”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Mitaka says. He takes a drink of his beer. The rim of the glass is weirdly sticky, and he regrets not checking it to make sure it was clean in advance of actually drinking. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, looks down at his apparently filthy glass. The glass is clean—it’s Kylo’s lipstick that’s the problem. “To be honest, we’re hoping we can just wait Snoke out until he dies.”

“Or help him along,” Phasma mutters darkly.

“The contracts are that bad, huh?” Dameron asks.

Phasma looks down at her drink, and then back up at Dameron meaningfully. “I’ll need to be drunker than this to talk shop with you, pretty boy.”

“Noted,” Dameron says. “Next round, coming right up.”

“Thanks,” Mitaka says.

“Gotta ask, though,” Dameron continues, cocking an eyebrow at Mitaka. “The lockscreen picture. How the hell’ve you seen that?”

Mitaka grimaces.

“I’ll ask in a round or two,” Dameron says.

Mitaka nods, knowing that he’s not gonna say a goddamn fucking thing.

 

“Shit,” Mitaka says halfway through the show. “That’s one of ours.”

Phasma sets her empty glass down on the table, looks back up at the stage. “Fuck me, it’s Bastian. I thought he’d quit after Black Sun.”

“Apparently not,” Mitaka says. “Technique hasn’t slipped or anything.”

“Even with all the blacklight bullshit.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Mitaka says. He waits until Bastian’s number ends and the lights come back up, claps even though it’s drowned out by the Resistance group hollering, and then shoves his chair back. “Back shortly.”

By the time Mitaka returns, feeling no more sober than he felt when he had initially stood up, Dameron’s bought another round of drinks. Mitaka takes a deep drink from his immediately—he swears he can still taste Kylo’s lipstick on his mouth, and he’d be a fuck of a lot happier if that would stop happening. “Fuck, I’m wasted,” he says.

“Should have paced yourself,” Phasma replies, setting her phone back on her lap. “Moderation is—”

“Oh, like you would know a damn thing about moderation.”

“I’ll have you know I’m spacing my texts to Armitage out by exactly twenty three minutes.” She smirks. “I can just imagine how fucking furious he is right now.”

Mitaka frowns, brings out his phone anyways. Opens up his text messages, finds Hux’s name, and hesitates.

No, fuck it.

He goes back a screen, texts his boyfriend instead.

_Mitaka: Assuming your phone is off._

_Mitaka: Thinking of you._

_Mitaka: Am reasonably drunk._

Mitaka flips his phone off again, looks back up at the stage. There’s an androgynous performer up there in pants and suspenders, blonde hair up in a short glittery mohawk, and lipstick a screaming bright blue. They’re currently sitting on a small stool—wait, no. Mitaka squints at the stage, because it seems ridiculous that they’re sitting on nothing, and also doing a stocking pull—but no, that’s correct, there’s definitely no chair there, and they’re just supporting their own weight with sheer muscle.

“Okay,” Phasma says. “That’s fantastic control.”

“Shit,” Mitaka breathes. “All this talent—and they’re performing here?”

“I don’t know what you could possibly dislike about this place,” Phasma says lightly. “It’s adorably trashy, and my shoes only get stuck to the occasional bit of floor.”

“I mean, the beer is great,” Mitaka says.

“Speaking of which,” Phasma says. She looks over to the tables where the Resistance dancers are, and holds her empty glass up in the air.

“You’re killing me, Phasma,” Mitaka groans.

“Buck up,” she says. “Still more show left, and you can’t tap out before Kylo fucking Ren performs.”

 

For a moment, Mitaka’s hopeful that there’s going to be something calmer. Maybe, like, a feather fan piece. A classic striptease. Something that involves long evening gowns and multiple glove reveals, saxophone and violin or maybe some classical piano. Something where he can just drink some water, relax, watch someone get naked—but no. There’s a juggling duo that’s so fast-paced that Mitaka can hardly follow the pins as they tumble, glowing and flashing about four different colours, through the air. It’s followed by a poi piece where the spinning is so fast the performer needs to duck so she doesn’t nail herself in the head with her own poi.

Mitaka pounds a glass of water while his heart is still racing from the poi piece, and somehow, finally, gets to the end of the beers that have continuously been showing up at his table. The next round that shows up is just two gin and tonics, and Mitaka opens his mouth to complain—and then closes his mouth again, because what would be the point? He’s verging on being uncomfortably drunk, and he really doesn’t want to be, because any minute now, Kylo Ren is going to take the stage—

The next piece is a contortion piece. The dancer is small, feminine, and not, under any circumstances, Kylo Ren.

Mitaka sighs, and goes to the bar for another water, trying to ignore the twinge from the headache that’s starting to creep in even though he’s still drunk.

 

“Well, well, well,” Phasma says.

Mitaka raises his head off his arms. “Hmm?”

She gestures toward the stage, takes an appreciative sip from her gin and tonic.

Mitaka looks.

Blinks.

Kylo Ren is.

Well.

He’s.

“I’m too drunk for this,” Mitaka murmurs.

“Hux is going to eat his own liver,” Phasma says, grinning. “He’s fucking gorgeous, look at him!”

And, holy shit, Phasma’s right—he fucking is. Tall and broad, sparkling in the light with his hair hanging long around his shoulders, spinning a staff in each hand like it isn’t even a thing. He’s hardly wearing anything—black pleather arm guards that cover his arms from elbows to wrists, coming to a point over the back of his hand, black shorts that look like they’ve been painted on his body, showing off his muscular thighs and round ass, fishnets, and—

“Ugh, dance sneakers?”

“I know,” Phasma says smugly. “I’m getting a picture when he comes over this way, Hux would murder him.”

“ _I_ might murder him,” Mitaka says.

Kylo’s over on stage left right now, idly spinning one staff in each hand, looking out at the crowd.

“That’s something different with his mouth,” Phasma says suddenly. “He doesn’t smile like that when he’s performing usually.”

Mitaka would roll his eyes—except that would mean he’d have to take his attention away from Kylo for a moment, and he finds that he doesn’t particularly want to do that.

The staves stop spinning, suddenly, and there’s a pause right before Kylo slams the butt end of each staff, one after the other, down on the stage. Another moment of silence, perfectly aligning to a gap in his music— _at least Hux would appreciate the timing_ —and then the staves light up, brilliant LED rainbows that nearly blind Mitaka for a moment before his eyes adjust.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, because Kylo Ren has started spinning the staves again, and holy fuck, the lights are drawing circles and swirls into the air, the afterimages lingering in brilliant rainbow paths behind him. It’s like the poi piece from earlier—only more, so much more, because Kylo is huge, his stage presence as well as his physicality, and there’s something about the way that he paces the stage as though he owns it, spinning one of the staves above his head and the other at his side as he paces all the way to the back of the stage, and then looks out at the audience—looks out at them—

“Oh bloody hell,” Mitaka says, and he doesn’t even have time to push his chair back before Kylo is running full tilt at them, actually jumping off the stage like a fucking gazelle, landing on the table in front of them, and then just as quickly stepping onto their table—so close to Mitaka that Mitaka could reach up and touch his calf—and then onto the table behind them before stopping, looking up, and—

—holy fucking shit, tossing one of his illuminated staves up into the air, tipping his head back, and feeding the other one right down his fucking throat.

“That’s right,” Phasma says. “Right down your throat, big boy.”

Mitaka watches in shock as Kylo reaches up, catches the other staff as it falls, holding it up above his head. He’s seen the sword-swallowing before on the archive footage, he knew Kylo could do it, but there’s a massive difference between watching something on professionally edited video, and watching it in a weirdly lit bar as the performer in question swallows a staff while standing on a table in fucking _dance sneakers_.

He’s up on his feet applauding before he’s even consciously decided to do it, watches as Kylo pulls the staff out of his throat, and then bows, table wobbling underneath him. Mitaka can feel his heart pounding, knows he’s short of breath.

“That was fucking _phenomenal_ ,” he says as soon as the applause has died down, and Kylo has loped backstage.

Phasma grins at him wickedly. “I think I see what Hux sees in him.”

Mitaka makes a face. “For fuck’s sake, stop taunting him. He’ll be a nightmare—you know that, right?”

She shrugs. “I thought you guys were like this again.” She extends her fingers, middle crossed over first. “I mean, you forgave him.”

“I’ve got a heart,” Mitaka points out. “You, on the other hand.”

Phasma grins. “It’s not your heart, it’s the thing where you think you can manipulate him into—”

“Aaaaaand that’s enough of that,” Mitaka says. He shoves his chair. “I’m gonna go talk to their stage manager. You coming?”

“No, I’m going to finish—that fucker,” Phasma says, looking down at the table and then down at the floor. “Bastard kicked over my drink.”

“Maybe he’ll buy you another,” Mitaka suggests.

 

“Your stage manager,” Mitaka repeats, once he’s actually found someone he recognizes. “I’d like to talk to your—”

“Heard you the first time,” the girl chirps. “But we don’t have one, not for a show this size.”

“There were eight performances,” Mitaka says. “No, wait. Nine. Sorry, I’m drunk.”

She laughs a little, and then shrugs. “Still doesn’t change the fact that we don’t have one. I mean, Poe likes to pretend like he’s doing it, but honestly, he didn’t need to do shit, he’s just—he’s just here,” she says, as though the end of her sentence wasn’t at all what she’d meant at the beginning. She frowns at him. “Who did you say you were again?”

“Dopheld Mitaka,” he says, extending his hand. “Not here officially,” he adds hurriedly. “Just—personally.”

Her eyes narrow, but she shakes his hand anyway. “Jessika Pava. You a reporter or something?”

“No,” he says, “I stage manage—” And it’s a great time to lie, but he’s drunk, and his mouth just goes ahead and commits to the bullshit coming out of his brain. “The Knights,” he says heavily. “I stage manage the Knights of Ren.”

She stares at him for a moment, and then laughs in his face. “Oh my god,” she says.

“I wasn’t there,” he says tightly. “For the—I wasn’t there.”

She raises her beer at him, takes a swig from her glass. “I mean, that does explain a lot. Oh, and that’s why the blonde lady looks so familiar!” She turns to her right, yells at a group of people. “Karé! You were right!”

“I know!” comes the answering yell. The blue-lipped, mohawked androgynous performer from before swaggers up from where they’d been sitting, drapes an arm around Pava’s shoulders. “He with them too?”

“Stage manager,” Pava says.

Karé’s eyes glint. “Karé Kun,” they say, extending their hand.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Pava says proudly.

“Partner,” Karé corrects, flicking Pava on the nose.

Pava winces, and then grins. Looks over Mitaka’s shoulder. “Hey, Poe, we were just—”

“I fucking lost him,” Dameron gripes, striding over and running his hand back through his hair, still looking around the bar. “He’s probably—no, wait, I see him. Fuck, he’s talking to one of the goddamn Knights again—”

“We weren’t,” Mitaka says. Licks his lips nervously when Dameron turns to him. “Part of the Knights,” he clarifies. “We were separate, before—we’re not—” He sighs, looks over to the bar. Kylo is standing there, leaning in close to Phasma. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. “I’ll just go. I’ll send—I can send—Kylo—” Mitaka stops talking, waves his hand vaguely. “Back this way,” he finishes.

Dameron’s eyes are narrowed. “Are you sure you guys are okay over there?” he asks. “Like, I mean. I don’t care. But.”

“We’re fine,” Mitaka lies. “Everything’s fine.” He smiles like he means it, watches Dameron’s face soften. “Congratulations. It was a good show.”

“Sure,” Dameron says. “I mean—yeah. Of course it was.”

 

“I’m just saying,” Kylo slurs to Phasma. “You are _so_ stunning.” He’s dressed now, his hoodie actually on and halfway zipped up. His chest is still exposed via the deep scoop neck of his tank top, and his stage makeup has mostly been washed off, fake eyelashes removed—everything gone except for thick black eyeliner around his eyes, a fresh application of lipstick, and the ever-present glitter. He has the same jeans on as he had before, except after watching him put a staff down his throat with hardly any visible effort, Mitaka wonders at the cause of the wear and tear on the knees of Kylo’s black jeans.

As Mitaka watches, Kylo reaches out, touching Phasma’s face, and for some fucking reason, she actually lets him, appears to be genuinely _smiling_.

Mitaka slows his pace as he approaches the bar, phenomenally fucking confused and trying to figure out if he’s more drunk than he thinks he is. He carefully and quickly touches the tip of each finger to his thumb, fumbles a bit on the fourth finger, but is otherwise quick and accurate enough to know that he’s not trashed, so—what the fuck is happening?

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Phasma says.

Mitaka blinks.

“But you’re a fucking mess right now,” she continues, and Mitaka relaxes fractionally, continues up to the bar. At this rate, he might as well order another drink, it’s not like sobering up is helping him understand tonight any better.

Kylo grins at her, tips his head to the side. “Have I told you,” he asks. “That it’s my birthday today? So if I’m ever entitled to be a mess—I think it’s today.”

“I don’t know,” Phasma says slyly. “You seem like the type of boy that might be a mess a lot of the time.”

“Maybe I am,” he says. “And maybe I’m not. You could find out, if you wanted.”

She reaches up, pats his cheek lightly. “You’re entirely too drunk for me to even consider that.”

Kylo hesitates a moment, and then grins loosely at her. “Good point. I’m pretty wasted.”

“Last thing I need is a case of a whiskey dick,” Phasma continues, and fucking hell, Mitaka really wishes he’d gone to the bathroom instead of standing by the bar beside the two of them. Like—this can’t be a thing. This can absolutely not be a thing, but he knows damn well if they keep pursuing it, he’s just going to go to the back room and collect Thanisson, and—move, or quit, or try working somewhere where his two closest coworkers aren’t sociopaths.

(He’s not going to do any of those things. He’s going to work until he dies, because that’s who he is as a person.)

“I can get it up for anything,” Kylo confides, probably louder than what he actually meant to.

Mitaka is going to die. He is going to dissolve into a puddle, and he is going to die.

“But I am pretty fucking drunk,” Kylo continues. “And it’s probably better if—yeah.” His face darkens for a moment, and then clears, easy smile reappearing like the sun from behind clouds. “Lemme buy you a drink, though, gorgeous? And I’ll get one for him too.”

Phasma turns. “Oh, Mitaka. You’re back.”

“Wish I’d stayed gone,” he answers ruefully.

Phasma grins viciously at him. “But I’m having such fun right now.”

“Well, that makes one of us.”

“Two of us,” Kylo answers, handing a pint over to Mitaka, and then a gin and tonic to Phasma. “And I bet I can make it three.” He extends his own pint somewhat unsteadily in a toast. “To good drinks, and better company.”

“To an unparallelled ability to deepthroat,” Phasma says, grinning.

Mitaka winces, raises his glass wordlessly, shakes his head minutely when Phasma raises her eyebrows.

Their glasses clink together heavily, and they all drink.

“I think Dameron was looking for you,” Mitaka says after he’s swallowed.

Kylo grins at him. “Thanks, man. I’ll go track him down.” He takes a couple unsteady steps away, and then turns back. “Hey, if y’all are ever in D’Qar—look us up.”

“We’ll see,” Mitaka demurs. He waits until Kylo has—rather drunkenly—wandered off before turning to Phasma. “Seriously?”

She’s still watching Kylo walk away. “He’s really something, isn’t he.”

“Please tell me you weren’t filming that.”

“Of course not,” she says, and she tips her phone toward Mitaka. “Just taking a couple pictures.”

Fuck, the man even looks good in candids.

Mitaka takes another drink of his beer. “Did you bother telling him you’ve been texting pictures of him to Hux all night?”

“Also video,” Phasma says absently, tapping away on her phone. “I managed to get the staff swallowing. And no, I didn’t.”

Mitaka pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not even sober and I can feel my hangover happening.”

“Well, isn’t that unfortunate for you.” She glances down at her phone again. “Oh, he’s so pissed. Goddamn, I love how reliably he falls to pieces.” She considers a moment. “Should I bother telling him that Kylo is currently grinding with some girl on top of a table?”

“There’s no need to make things up,” Mitaka mutters into his beer.

“That’s the glory of Kylo Ren,” Phasma says. She gestures to the other side of the bar, where Kylo is—

—oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.

“Those two fucking deserve each other,” Mitaka says. “What the fuck. Don’t tell Hux I said that.”

“Why not?” Phasma asks. “He’s so easy to rile up.”

“That’s nice for you,” Mitaka says. “You just have to put his ribs back into place. I’m the one that actually needs to get him to work with people.”

“He’ll get it sorted out,” Phasma says. “I mean, how much worse could it possibly get?”

There’s a tug at Mitaka’s sleeve.

He turns, just in time for Thanisson to tackle him in a sloppy embrace, sniff heavily into his shoulder.

Apparently gambling hadn’t gone well.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Mitaka says. He nuzzles at the side of Thanisson’s head. “It’s alright, you’ll have better luck next time.”

“I lost everything,” Thanisson says mournfully.

Mitaka does a quick mental calculation, swallows back his sigh. “Alright, we’ll just—”

“Everything _except this ten grand!”_ Thanisson says, stepping back and fanning out a ridiculous wad of cash.

Mitaka can think of about fifteen things to say—things like _holy fuck_ and _don’t wave that around in here, we’ll get robbed_ and _how many people did you cheat_ and, primarily, _what the hell_ —but he doesn’t say any of them, just looks at his boyfriend blankly.

Thanisson grins at him, all dimples and freckles. “I did good, ‘taka! Drinks on me! Let’s get some food! And some shots!” He shoves most of the cash into Mitaka’s hands, and stands there, bouncing on the balls of his feet a moment.

“You did well,” Mitaka manages finally, and Thanisson grins, wide enough to nearly split his face open.

“I’m gonna grab us shots!” Thanisson says, and then he’s off to the other end of the bar.

“Oh my god,” Mitaka says quietly, trying to fold the cash and jam it in one of his pockets. It doesn’t go gracefully, and he fumbles trying to split it into two stacks, regrets that he’s not wearing a jacket with additional pockets. “He’s never won that much before, I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

“Absolutely never,” Phasma says. “How the hell much did you send him in there with?”

“Two grand,” Mitaka says. “I sent him in there with two grand and he made it into ten.”

Phasma grins. “Well, there you go. You’ve got an alternate career— _another_ alternate career—if you—oh, haha. Hux is back at his phone.”

“Do I even want to know?” Mitaka asks.

She chuckles, tips her phone toward him, and it’s just—holy hell, it’s a wall of text, with a series of phrases jumping out at Mitaka.

_—fucking knew he was a goddamn slut—_

_—telling you for years—_

_—never listen—_

_—no way I’m getting in touch—_

_—why would I—_

_—ruined my career—_

_—are you fucking high—_

Mitaka hands Phasma her phone back. “How long’s that rant been going?”

“Since I sent him the video,” she says. “I’ve got—eighteen minutes left before I send another text. I think this candid, huh?” She tips her phone back toward Mitaka.

It’s a candid of Kylo walking away from them. His ass looks fantastic.

“You know what,” Mitaka says. “I’m just gonna leave you to that. I’ll just … not get involved.”

“Suit yourself,” Phasma says, grinning. “I’m sure the next text is just gonna be more of the same, but it’s only midnight and he doesn’t sleep until four, so there’s all kinds of time for things to devolve.”

Mitaka rolls his eyes, takes the shot Thanisson offers him and sets it down on the bar, where hopefully he’ll just completely forget to drink it.

Thanisson tosses back his own shot and grins at him again, all dimples. His cheeks are slightly flushed. “Oh, hey. Was Kylo Ren any good?”

“Yeah,” Mitaka says. “He was quite good, actually.”

“Magnificant,” Phasma says wickedly, holding her phone up and taking another photo.

Goddamn, does Mitaka’s head hurt—and it’s gonna hurt worse if he goes back to Citadel tomorrow like they’d intended. “Hey, so. Thanisson. How’d you—how would you—feel if we … stayed here a couple extra days?”

“Work thing?” Thanisson asks. He licks some of the salt off the rim of his glass.

“No,” Mitaka says, telling the truth.

The eyebrow Thanisson raises at him indicates that he should have lied.

Phasma looks down at her phone, and chuckles.

Thanisson looks over at Phasma, back to Mitaka, and then to Phasma again—or, more specifically, to Phasma’s phone. “Oh,” he says. “I get it. Phasma’s riling Hux up and you wanna give him a couple days to cool down, so you’re faking that it has nothing to do with work so that I’ll go along with it.”

Mitaka rolls his eyes. “You could just let me pretend I’m giving you a vacation.”

“You don’t take vacations,” Thanisson says. He licks more salt off the rim of his glass, and then leans up against the bar and snuggles up against Mitaka’s side. “Thank you, though.” He leans into Mitaka’s ear. “ _Daddy._ ”

Mitaka can feel himself blushing furiously, and does not make eye contact with Phasma, instead looking out across the bar where Kylo Ren has the poi performer up on his shoulders, and glassware be damned because there’s no way she’s not dropping at least one of her pints in the next thirty seconds—

“Wait,” Thanisson says, following Mitaka’s gaze. “ _That’s_ the guy Hux fucked?”

“That’s him,” Phasma confirms. “Your boyfriend is into it, incidentally.”

Thanisson makes a face, and a disgusted noise.

Mitaka sighs. “Could we please never discuss Kylo Ren again?”

Phasma looks down at her phone. “Oh, for sure,” she says. “But that would mean I’d have to keep this latest batch of Hux texts to myself …”

Mitaka picks up the shot he’d been trying to abandon, and tosses it back. It burns all the way down his chest into his stomach. “Go ahead,” he says, regretting it already. “Show me.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, at least we know now that Hux texts _everybody_ like that when he's pissed off.
> 
> I'm on Twitter and Tumblr, @heyktula.


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